


Crewel

by peternurphy



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Gen, Horror, Needles, Paranormal, Torture, Tumblr Prompt, mild descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8171524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peternurphy/pseuds/peternurphy
Summary: Prompt: Possession.Something is following Garak.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AreYouReady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AreYouReady/gifts).



> originally posted @ http://nyarlathotwink.tumblr.com/post/151123527165/garak-p

With his penchant for needles in the sterile white rooms on high powered ships, in the dark basements beneath the now sparsely populated old industry centers of his own planet, Elim Garak considers it fate that he became a tailor.

The first time was practice. A rather routine interrogation of a Cardassian involved with True Way, Tain speaking softly to the man and Elim watching dutifully – then Tain had taken a tray of instruments and given them to Elim. A choice. The standard issue emitter was set in the center, with a simple array of buttons and a display screen. A pair of thick gloves, with protection over the joints and claws and a brace for the wrists were folded next to it. A long, thin, knife lay just next to that – it didn't even gleam in the lights. And more, each skillfully demonstrated in their own ways and practiced in holosessions and on cadavers. 

He'd reached for a set of 10 needles – half of which were more akin to knitting needles. And when he pushed them under the ridges and heard the cracking of scales and the screeching of the man, his wrist stayed firm and his angle direct.

As he became more adept, he got more needles, for more specialized purposes. A thin and small type that could be left pushed slightly into skin, indefinitely. A hollow type, that would let blood drip slowly and continuously out for hours upon hours of time – with a few prisoners of different species, he'd confirmed that they could let the blood out until death. Thicker ones that left large, ragged holes. Especially heat conducive metals that would burn precise marks where the needle was left. And some were just long and thin and sharp.

And sometimes he didn't have his kit with him. If you're working as a housekeeper on a Federation planet, you would have no reason to have so many specialized needles. His hands, his knowledge of the body, his knowledge of the psyche, could easily suffice, but the son of the businessman had a penchant for historical embroidery.

It was a thoughtless move, but before he left to grab the dignitary for his information, Elim had slipped a crewel needle from the set into his pocket. And after three hours of every use he could find for it, he pushed it into a particular nerve cluster and took it with him.

Somehow, he kept it from getting lost long enough that it became part of his sewing kit on Terok-Nor. There were times when a physical metal needle and thread were just more effective. Cardassian fashion rarely called for it – but when Terok-Nor became Deep Space Nine, wool-akin embroidery requests grew more frequent.

The first request ended in fabric ruined with Elim's blood. He wrapped his hand in a bandage himself when the regenerator could only create a thin, bubbly layer over where the scales had been ripped off, and claimed a Cardassian-specific injury. 

It was the same pattern each time he tried to sew – specific rows of scales that made no sense to Garak beyond the rings of scales ripped like rings around each finger. They were near the tendons that let his fingers move, but not on them, and they deviated from what would be the pattern. With all the scarring, it began to be a different color from the rest of his hand – lighter and nearly reddish, despite the actual color of his blood.

After the third time, it was enough. He took the needle and disposed of it – clearly, this kind of embroidery wasn't something he could do by hand. For the next embroidery commissions he used the machine, and while it was never as precise as he liked, it was passable, and left his hand more or less intact.

At least, for a time.

Three months later, a request for a gown comes in. An Andorian design, with a specific pattern around the bodice. As Elim finishes the pattern and begins to sketch out the embroidery, he wonders just how specific he needs to be. He points the machine and steady his wrist for the intricacies of the pattern as best as he can. But the threads don't generate. On a scrap piece of fabric, each setting does what Elim intends it to. When he returns it to the fabric of the gown, nothing.

He starts to go for the computer, to find the information on the Andorian and inform them that there will be a delay – then in the center of the room, his ridges pulse and he turns back towards his workstation. The drawer of needles fills his line of sight, and his unscarred hand is drawn towards it while the scarred hand tenses and twinges. He pulls it open as if he's getting a simple applique needle – then rips it out of the station.

For in the drawer, in a circle of white thread, lies a single crewel needle.


End file.
